A Forest Seat

Upon the simple steps of an oak root,
Sewing patience between these lips,
I hear a dense rushing hum
And snapping twigs in the distance,
Grounded with my toes meshed in old soils,
You could brush the spines of my back,
Gentle forward, careful in assessing
An earthworm’s gait among the fallen leaves,
Crushed with yesterday’s rain, yellowing to dirt,
Some fifty crows prance, cackling, skyward
Calls coordinated unintelligently to me,
Loose in seconds, those that perspire
And flow down the weight of these forearms,
All hidden by cotton and my fetal reclusion,
Do I dream of bathing in the underbrush,
Bending branches until my armor creaks
And withers from embers.